Rise and Fall
by Astra H. Lowelle
Summary: Even the ever-cool Sherlock Holmes can lose his cool. To be fair, he was seven at the time. For lack of any other options, Mycroft was forced to take care of his brother.
1. Chapter 1

"M- Mycroft?"

Mycroft Holmes looked up. Seven-year-old Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the study, clutching his small blanket and looking very unhappy.

"What?" Mycroft snapped. "I'm busy. And why aren't you in bed?"

"I don't feel so good," the little boy whispered. "Mummy won't be home until much later, and Daddy's not here, and I-"

Mycroft grabbed his brother's thin shoulders and hurried him out of the study. "Do _not_ throw up in here, Sherlock. I _mean_ it."

Sherlock gripped the blanket tighter, his face a very attractive shade of old porridge. "I don't feel good," he reiterated in a whisper. "But not like I'm going to throw up. I just feel- awful, all hot and thirsty and awful."

"It might be fever," Mycroft mumbled distractedly, leading Sherlock down the hall and back into his bedroom. "Go and lie down. I'll get you something to drink."

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and collapsed onto it, not even bothering to get underneath the blanket. Mycroft left the room, returning shortly with a glass of water and a thermometer.

"Open up," he commanded, shoving the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably. Mycroft ordered him to stay still. Sherlock moaned. The thermometer beeped.

"101.5," Mycroft reported. "You're staying in bed. Drink your water and get some sleep."

"Will you come check on me?" the patient asked plaintively. Mycroft groaned.

"Periodically. Now drink up and go to sleep."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft carefully closed the door and headed back to his study, sinking down into his desk chair and putting his head into his hands. This was _exactly_ what he needed- a sick little brother with no one to take care of him except Mycroft.

"I'll go look in on him in a bit," Mycroft decided, pulling a large book out of a shelf and propping it open on his desk. Maybe a bit of reading would calm him down.

He had been immersed in the book for some time when he heard something. It was a soft, plaintive noise, one he wouldn't normally have bothered with otherwise, but something about it told him to put down his book and move- out of the study and down the hall.

Mycroft opened the door. From the bed, Sherlock looked over to him hopefully, eyes glittering with fever.

"Can I have a drink of water?" he whispered. "I was calling and calling and-"

"Are you getting worse?" Mycroft interrupted incredulously, pacing quickly toward the bed and laying a hand on his brother's forehead. "I swear you've gotten warmer since-"

"Can I have some water?" Sherlock managed again, more hoarsely than before. Mycroft nodded distractedly, reaching for the water glass on the bedside table. Sherlock took a few gulps, spilling water onto his pajama shirt. Mycroft chose to ignore this, and picked up the thermometer again.

"No," Sherlock moaned. "Mycroft, I hate thermometers…"

Mycroft only response was to stick the hated device under his little brother's tongue. "Look, Sherlock, I know you don't like it, but I need to check your temperature."

Too weak to argue, Sherlock waited until Mycroft pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. The small numbers read: _102.2._


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft carefully lifted his brother out of the bed, grabbed the heavy blanket and pillow that Sherlock had been lying on, and walked out of the room. Sherlock dropped his head weakly onto Mycroft's shoulder, his forehead burning against his brother's neck.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Where are you taking me?"

The voice was so small, so trustingly innocent. Mycroft couldn't remember the last time his normally imperious little brother had sounded like this.

"We're going back to my study. There's a couch there. I want to keep an eye on you."

"Not to the doctor?"

"No, Sherlock, not to the doctor."

"Am I going to die?"

Mycroft, his hand on the doorknob to the door of his study, froze.

"What makes you ask that?"

"Great-Uncle William died," Sherlock whispered. His arms tightened around Mycroft's neck. "I don't want to die. Am I going to die, like Great-Uncle William?"

"Great-Uncle William died because he was old," Mycroft answered curtly. "You aren't going to die because of a fever."


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft felt the small body relax against him as he pushed open the door to his study. It was furnished elegantly, with an antique desk, chair, rugs, bookshelves, and a couch for late-night working. It was upon the last that he laid Sherlock down onto, and then draped the heavy blanket over him and slid the pillow underneath his head.

"Try to rest," Mycroft instructed, tucking the blanket underneath Sherlock's chin. Sherlock nodded weakly. "It you need another drink, let me know. I'll be right over there."

He indicated the desk and chair, and then helped his little brother take a few sips of water. Sherlock drank about half of the water, handed Mycroft the glass, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, and closed his eyes, going limp underneath the thick blanket.

Mycroft went to his desk to put the glass down, then bent and carefully shifted the dark curls off his little brother's forehead. Sherlock convulsed a bit at the touch, but relaxed almost instantly. Mycroft frowned.

"You're getting warmer, brother mine," he told his supine patient. "I'm taking your temperature again."

Expecting a protest but getting none, Mycroft poked the thermometer between Sherlock's lips. He waited. A beep sounded. Mycroft pulled the device out and consulted it.

"103.2," he noted, a bite of worry in his voice. "Are you feeling dizzy or light-headed at all, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock!"

No answer.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Sherlock!"_ Mycroft declaimed firmly, trying very hard to keep the tremor out of his voice. _"Answer me!"_

"Mmmmuughh…" Sherlock groaned.

" _Sherlock!"_ A whirlwind of relief momentarily wiped out any other thought in Mycroft's brain. "All you all right?"

"I wan'a drink of water," the seven-year-old managed, cracking open an eye and looking at his older brother pleadingly. "Please?"

Mycroft grabbed for the water glass, nearly spilling it onto the carpet in his haste. Sherlock drank eagerly. Mycroft refilled the glass.

"I'll go and get a cold cloth for your head. You stay here."

Sherlock swallowed the last of the water and nodded, eyelids drooping. Mycroft ruffled his hair reassuringly and left, returning quickly with a wet washcloth. He gently shifted Sherlock's curls out of the way, then carefully laid the washcloth over his forehead.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Mycroft couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had said that to him. He smiled, wondering vaguely whether he was turning into a sentimental fool, and then decided he didn't care.

He picked up the book from his desk and sat down on the sofa beside Sherlock, finding his page and starting to read again, periodically adjusting the washcloth. Sherlock settled into the blankets, his lips partway open, breathing slowly and softly.

 _Sherlock could be rather lovable when he wasn't being irritating_ , Mycroft thought. _Odd._


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm going to check your temperature again," Mycroft decided after a peaceful half hour. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, and he focused on Mycroft questioningly.

"Open up," the elder of the two repeated. "I need to see how you're doing."

"I don' like thermometers," Sherlock mumbled drowsily as Mycroft poked the device between his lips. Mycroft smiled. "Believe me, I know."

The thermometer beeped. Mycroft consulted it.

"102 on the dot," he told Sherlock. "You're getting better."

"Oh," Sherlock said, his voice fuzzy. He rolled over. "That's good."

"Who would have thought a little TLC would go such a long way?" Mycroft mumbled to himself as he resettled his sleepy little brother and began massaging his back. Sherlock raised his head a bit.

"What's TLC?" he asked his older brother. Mycroft grinned.

"It stands for tender loving care. It's something Mummy says sometimes, and frankly I don't know why I said it. I think you're making me go mad, brother mine."

"Doesn't take much," Sherlock murmured as he dropped his head back onto the pillow. Mycroft considered giving him a whack, but decided against it. There would be time for that later- when Sherlock was feeling a bit better.


	7. Chapter 7

A few minutes of silence, and there was a soft knocking at the door.

"Mycroft?" came a rather worried voice. "Are you in there?"

Mycroft stood and went to the door. His mother was standing there, still in her traveling coat and looking frantic.

"Oh, hello, Mother. What's the matter?"

"Have you seen Sherlock?" she demanded. "He's not in his room, and he's not downstairs, and he-"

Mycroft put a finger to his lips and led his mother into his study. There, lying peacefully on the couch in all his flushed, wayward-curly glory was Sherlock, fast asleep and perfectly innocent-looking.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Mrs. Holmes whispered. "Doesn't he look sweet- but why is he in here?"

"He wasn't feeling well," Mycroft replied. "Nothing serious- just a touch of fever."

"And you took care of him? All by yourself?" Mrs. Holmes folded her oldest into a hug. "That was very responsible of you."

Mycroft squirmed, and his mother let go, still smiling proudly. "Thank you, Mycroft. Would you like me to take it from here?"

Mycroft turned to look at his little brother. Sherlock's eyes had opened just a tiny bit, and he was watching the scene, evidently curious as to his reply. He caught Mycroft's eye, and quickly looked away.

"I can do it." Mycroft turned back to his mother. "He does tend to grow on you."

Behind him, Sherlock let out a soft, contented breath.

Mrs. Holmes left the room, still beaming, and Mycroft sat back down on the sofa beside his little brother.

"This doesn't leave this room, Sherlock," he said warningly. Sherlock smiled drowsily and snuggled deeper into his shell of blankets, asleep once more and perfectly contented.

Mycroft smiled too.


	8. Epilogue

**(SEVERAL YEARS LATER)**

. . . . . . .

.`.`.`.`.`.

 _John, what does one do in the event of a headache and other minor symptoms?_

 _-M H_

Mycroft slipped his phone back into his pocket, massaging his forehead. He had a splitting headache and felt as though his breathing passages had been filled with several yards of cotton wool. It could have been overwork, but Mycroft did not overwork.

Ever.

Or so he thought.

He groaned as he imagined what his day was going to look like. He never skipped work- no matter how bad his ailments were- but today was going to be impossible.

His phone chimed.

 _I'll be right over, dear brother. Stay put._

Mycroft stared at the phone screen.

"Sherlock," he muttered, "this had _better_ not be you."

And with that, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and staggered into the kitchen to make some coffee.

. . . . . . .

.`.`.`.`.`.

He didn't get to drink it, though.

"Mycroft," called a voice from the foyer, as he was entering his bedroom. "Are you here?"

"No," Mycroft replied sourly as he set the cup down on his bedside table. "I am currently lying in the crater of Mt. Vesuvius and hoping that it blows me to kingdom come before I have to see you."

"Good morning to you, too," Sherlock said cheerfully, coming into the room. "I hear you're suffering from overwork?"

"I do not overwork, Sherlock," Mycroft said curtly. "Furthermore, I would like to know why you received a text that I sent to John Watson."

"I commandeered John's mobile," Sherlock explained. "I needed it for something. I'm still not entirely sure he knows I have it, bless him. And thus I found your text. It's overwork. Go and lie down. I'll make tea," he decided, heading for the small kitchen. "And when I come back, you are going to drink it."

"You are enjoying this far too much," Mycroft mumbled. Sherlock, poised at the door, turned.

"Yes, I am indeed," he agreed cheerily, without a trace of shame in his voice. "Now lie down."

Sighing, Mycroft did as he was told. Sherlock left the room, returning a few minutes later with a cup of amber liquid.

"Drink," he ordered.

Mycroft accepted the cup and took a sip. It was hot and sweet, slipping easily down his throat and leaving an odd, though not unpleasant, sensation lingering there. He drank again, feeling the liquid glide down and the odd sensation increased.

The room seemed to slip in and out of focus as Mycroft swallowed the last bit of tea. Sherlock moved forward and accepted the cup from him.

"How do you feel?" he inquired.

"Exhausted," Mycroft yawned. Sherlock's expression changed abruptly to satisfaction. Mycroft frowned.

 _"What did you put in that tea?"_ he demanded, even as wave after soft, subtle wave of drowsiness began to creep over him.

Sherlock's smile became more pronounced. "Just a little compound I've been playing with," he replied. "A sleep-inducer. To be honest, I wasn't sure whether it would actually work."

"You used me as a _guinea pig?_ " Mycroft would have leapt out of bed and readily strangled his brother on the spot, but the soft, drowsy waves had begun to thicken, and his limbs felt like they had lead weights attached to them. "You could have _poisoned_ me!"

"I would never poison you, Mycroft," Sherlock assured him, sitting down in his brother's desk chair and watching him as if he were a rather interesting show. "There was no poisonous material in my compound. But I figured if you were sick anyway, and you could use the extra sleep..."

"As soon as this dratted compound of yours wears off I'm going to _kill_ you," Mycroft managed. His head felt like a bowling ball, and he could hardly keep his eyes open. "I can't believe you would use your own brother as a test subject for your experiments."

He paused bitterly. "Oh, wait; this is _you_ we're talking about. How silly of me."

"You'll feel better after you've gotten a proper rest," Sherlock replied quietly. "There was no way you'd let yourself sleep in the middle of the day, sick or not. So, when I heard you were ill, I figured I'd come and test my compound and give you a chance you rest at the same time."

Mycroft's vision began to go dark. He felt himself sinking into the mattress, the weight of the blanket he'd pushed aside descending over him as Sherlock bent over the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. There was the sound of soft footsteps, a whispered "Sleep well, brother mine", a door closing, and then the soft dark washed over his whole body and carried him off to sleep.


End file.
